The bottle fell to meet the sound of shattering glass on the destined chunk of tar. She had her head in her hands. Tears rolled down her cheeks onto the road, as she saw him walk away.
- - -
He glanced at the digital clock on the Xplod. 23:57. The dazed pair of eyes focused back on the road, or atleast attempted to. His fingers had lost both, the warmth and the grip. It was as if dead, insensitive skin rested on a circular mould covered in leather. The wheel itself swayed from left to right, very pendulum-like. He was quickly losing control over its movement, yet the feet rarely left the accelerator. The alcohol was taking full effect, as J’s sunken eyes continued to flicker.
‘Fucking bitch’, he heard himself saying, as he gulped down another mouthful of the cursed scotch.
As he approached the railway bridge, he tapped the brake. The Corsa slowed down, momentarily, before the right limb arbitrarily pressed itself against the pedal. 40kph. Now 50kph. He turned through the narrow path under the bridge, not attempting to slow down in any manner, as the screeching sound of pre-fatality filled the neighborhood. Like a furious meander of a deathly stream, he twisted and turned the vehicle around the narrow paths before entering the slums.
The eyes flickered again, trying to stay open, like a lamp struggling on its last drop of oil. But as he sped forward, the liquor emerged victorious. For one fleeting instant the eyes were shut in deep thought and regret - in submission to the might of intoxication. It was as if time refused to tick forward - a void - a sudden enigmatic emptiness of silence.
The old woman.
It happened instantaneously. It was painless. She hardly suffered a moment of pain. It was over in a moment. He hit the brakes as a reflex reaction, and the metal wagon of murder came to a halt just outside her hut. Her corpse came flying down to meet him, landing on the bonnet. The abrupt thud, an omen of finality. Fatality. The soul had entered the after-life.
His eyes were shielded from the sight before him by the trembling fingers and a palm that had broken into cold sweat. They had regained their grip as a result of fear more than sobriety. He slowly moved them away, until they covered the face no more, although the eyes were still shut. He slowly opened them.
The corpse looked back at him, in the eye. The body was lifeless, there was blood all over but not a hint of agony, and he could still hear her screaming. From the windscreen, she was still looking at her assassin, an inquiring look stuck on the stiff face.
- - -
She was now sprinting, but she was late. He was taken. Handcuffed, he looked at her rushing to meet him. He shrugged his shoulders. It was too late. Everything was too late. He still yearned for the drink, and tried to reach it. The officer intervened, as the assassin writhed in anger. But the law-enforcers had seen enough. The seargant walked to the pavement and picked it up. With one last look of disgust at the scotch, he chucked it.
The bottle fell to meet the sound of shattering glass on the destined chunk of tar. She had her head in her hands. Tears rolled down her cheeks onto the road, as she saw him walk away.
